Between Roots and Branches

I learned early that my roots would hold without being held. The conditions shifted from storm to silence, and my roots gripped whatever soil would take them. I learned when to move and when to stay still. I learned that survival meant reading energy when you’re young and you have no voice. My roots remember everything. They remember kitchens where voices whispered, rooms I tiptoed through, names I cried out for at night, yearning. They grew twisted—not broken— bent around the trauma that birthed me. Above ground, people saw stillness and mistook it for peace. They didn’t see the growth beneath it, or the pain and suffering layered underneath. There was endurance. Resilience. A constant negotiation with fear. Silence and indecision kept me planted and starved, but my roots kept carrying me anyway. Roots let you grow, but they also keep you grounded. They never ask if where you’re planted is good enough. I didn’t start growing upward until I understood the soil I’d grown in was too small. Some soil feeds you. Mine only kept me buried. My branches came late— cautious, anxious at first, reaching but afraid of the light after all those years in the dark. They learned to move with the wind instead of fearing it. Bending became a choice, not just a reflex. Each branch carries what the roots never could: voice, breath, want, dreams, desire. They hold the weight of wanting more, of leaving rooms where love is conditional, of choosing growth over chaos just because it’s familiar. I don’t cut my roots. They earned their place. They kept me alive in the dark when visible growth wasn’t yet possible. But now that I’ve felt the breeze, now that I’ve danced in the wind, I won’t go back to living underground. I stand between what made me and what I’m becoming— feet steady, arms open, roots holding, branches reaching— finally taking up space between both.